Tag: Death

When I was born, I was crying and the other were in joy of my crying
When I leave, the other cries for stealing their joy, their memories, their idea of me and never me

For the me I call me, is a relative me that is framed and formed from the fabric of the other
To know the me, to know the I that is other than given by the other, maybe I need to look at the tether of the other
A tether that is non relative to the other and that which does not reside in the other, and has its roots with the me I call as me, the image of the me within me

And maybe when I stand alone, I may come across this tether of the idea of the other and the nature of my perception of the relationship of the other
To get to know this tether of the other is to know the nature of the nether
For the feather and the nether within is relative to the other and the other in the I that is neither in the I nor in the other

To bow to another, to row with another may extend the hand of comfort, lend the land of the concert and justification of the act of non-rectification
And I may never come across the nature of the I that is lost in any of the other

So sound the horn of the Human, Be the lumen that is born in every numen, realize and actualize the Hu within the Human
For to be the Hu, is to be the new in every morning dew
In the new is the true and in the true is the new

New is not a relative new to that of the old
For the old is a memory with its prangs and gangs that gets drunk in the name of the new
Break this gunk, shake this skunk and make one self debunk
To know the nature of the new
For such new, has no knew or new to show the old or the bold or to uphold the so told
Like water this is the very matter that is behind all of the later

To face this new is to travel within, to ungravel the in, and to brace this akin is to make the fuel for my actualization of the realization of that which is burning
Burning within, from which I am running and yet akin from running
For standing has strength while all else are running from this aking

For the kingdoms and the doldrums, the rags and the riches, the drags and brags are all in the with in
So wake up, Stand up with in the up that has no ship of relationship, that which is neither the up of the down or the down of the up and is always around and abound

Like this:

Like the time, I was born, I dint know I was born
Maybe, when I leave, I wouldn’t know I have left
Maybe, such is the nature of birth and death
And everything in-between is not mine, it is of the other, it is the inherited thought of the other to the other to another

So I ask myself, how can I rejoice of my birth, that which I dint know
How I feel sad of the approaching death, again, that which I don’t know
For both the sadness and joy are of the known, are of the inherited thoughts

Maybe, such is the nature of hate and love, fear and fantasy
Maybe, it is someone else’s fear, somebody else’s definition of love that I made it mine
Maybe such is the nature of relationships, it is someone else’s thoughts I have made it mine and started adapting, adopting, acting them, passing them on to the other to relive another day

Maybe, so is the reason that each of us is called a person, meaning, a mask
For each of the masks I mask myself in, I task myself with to bask in my many masks

The mask of the male, the mask of the mother, the mask of the female, the mask of the father
to create a cask for the masks to fit, called relationships
Like a fish in the water, unknown of its water, I swim under the ship of relationships, carrying, storying and marrying my masks

For in these masks I makeup my life that I call mine to relive to revive the marriage of my masks
Making Life a knife edged with good and bad within which I find my pleasure of the strife

Maybe, one day I may realize that Life is neither in the good nor in the bad. Neither in the light nor in the dark
And that day, maybe I let not the opposites be a requisite for life

For the day of departure may arrive within any moment
The moment of suffering can move in within any movement
I let not my power over the other be my own cower

The mask of Suffering is real, as real as the body
The task of my perceptions are real, as real as the perceiver
The basking of pain is real, as real as the memory of the pain brought into the moment within the movement of its elegant expression

I cannot change you, I do not want to change the you nor the world
I do not want to wait for the day of my departure to realize, to actualize, to mesmerize the beauty of life beyond the walls of my masks

For the end of the rainbow is near, very near
So maybe I sacrifice the me, to be born form the ashes of the me’s me
to give freely, to outlive that which I give to maybe relive really

For the path of truth has no path of the fruit
It is a path I have to unmask and face it on my own two feet
to stand up to the habit and to the uncomfort where no other stands, where no other walks, where no other marks
It is a path that I create for myself and myself only to walk alone, all alone
For I am that has no claim for I am is always alone

Like this:

Living in the differences, finding the difference within the difference of the difference
I have become a nuisance to the wants of the indifferent
Flicked by each one, flipped by everyone
I am no one to raise the one in each one

With no dimension to mention and with no mention of a dimension to make my illusory mansion
I await in the depths of my breath for my dear friend, death

Death as a memory to relieve me of my memories, to relive another memory
I am tangled in the web of my own fury

In a world that bows to the glory, I make my story a fairy
A fairy story to makeup my dairy, A dreary dairy

Bounded by the pleasures of the flesh
Hounded by the measures of my minds mesh
I am found within this mesh of the flesh

Bodies as a manifestation of the thought
and thought as expression through the bodies
I have become an extension of the thought of the body, living in the knot of the shoddy

Unaware and unable to recognize the nature of this thought, I go about being a feature of my own drought

The thought that is crowned, the thought that is downed, the thought that is abound
And the thought, thinking of the thought of the thought that is confound may come across the nature of its own nature
To liberate, to desecrate, to negate, to disintegrate each thought and every thought

Maybe here, maybe then, I may come across that which is not of the body, through the mind of the body nor the knot of that which is taught
For the thought that is not caught, is not of the taught and not of the sought.

Like this:

In the death is the breath of the other
In the breath of the other is the birth of another
In the Birth of another is the experience of each other
In the experience of each other, is the memory of together

In the memory of the together, I tether
To the memory of the other, I wither
For the memory of the other, I shiver
To the memory of the other, I hither

For a few moments in the memory and for a few monuments within the memory
I go after the memory to make a memory of the memory for another memory
Not realizing that within my memory

The name changes
The game changes
The fame changes
The shame changes
And the reason behind the season for change, changes
But the essence behind the name, the game, the fame and the shame, remains the same

For my memory ignites my recognition
Whether the recognition is of un-compassion or of compassion, is still my memory

Recognition as my ignition
I burn on the fuel of duel
The duel of the bad and the good, one for the other, one over the other, one or the other

In this battle against one another, each other, within my memory
I rattle my own memories making more memories
Memories that make me a cattle
cattle that is served into the plate of my own battles

And this I call, memories of life
I wonder of when I un-memorize my memory and my memory of my memories, with no memory to memory to memorize the memory of the memory

Like this:

Many Times, i hear the words – be the space between thoughts
I wonder if the space between thoughts is like the space between death and birth, for i remember none of them
Just like the space between the thoughts, i have no memory of either of them

I know i am dying but don’t really remember when i die, at that moment of death…
same way i know i was born on so and so date and time but don’t remember that event myself

I hear many times, live as if i am dead, Die as if i am still alive
Does living, as if i am dead mean, to be conscious of the memory that has no memory, just like the space between thoughts that has no thought?

For many times i am only living in the memory

In the memory i live, in the memory i fade
In the memory i cry, in the memory i laugh
To the memory i die, to the memory they cry

In the memories i hop, in the memory i hope
In the memory i miss, in the memory i kiss
In memory i speak, in the memory i Seek
In the memory i fish, To the memories i miss

And yet, birth and death has no memory to make
The one in between is full and the one in-between is nil
What if i can be nil to the full and Full to the nil?

I die to my memory, to be born to no memory when i have a memory

So i wonder what is birth and what is death?
I wonder if i can die while i am still alive, alive to the memories, die to the memories
I wonder what living and dying is then to me?